Prompt Fills
by GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: A one-shot collection dedicated to prompt fills, because I'm writing several fills and I might as well put them all in the same place. Currently accepting prompts.
1. Eleven Months

**A/N: So...hi everyone. I'm back.**

 **Sorry about the hiatus, I went through a nasty patch of writer's block. But I seem to have mostly recovered, so yeah.**

 **Anyway, this is basically** **a one-shot collection dedicated to prompt fills, because I'm going to be doing quite a few of those and I might as well put them all in the same place. If you want, you can give me prompts of your own.** **Although FYI, sometimes I won't be able to fill a prompt because my muse is picky, so please don't yell at me if that happens.**

 **A big thank you to _rycbarm123_ for their help in betareading this chapter, they really did a fantastic job :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form. Also, this chapter's prompt came from a website called The Fake Redhead Writes, a website dedicated to writing which gives permission for people to use their prompts.**

* * *

 _Prompt:_

 _"It's a long story."_

 _"You conned me into thinking you were dead for eleven months. I have time."_

* * *

Eleven months.

Eleven months since d'Artagnan was last in Paris. Eleven months since he last entered the Garrison or helped in carrying out a mission. Eleven months since he last saw Constance. Eleven months since he last spoke to one of his brothers, and eleven months since he faked his own death to protect them.

Somehow, it seems like longer. Much, much longer.

Paris no longer feels quite the same as before. As he walks slowly through the streets, dispassionately ignoring the people who turn to stare at his scarred face, he can see that almost nothing has changed, and yet he has a queer sense of not belonging. Somewhere down the line, Paris stopped being his home, and he is now a stranger to the city.

Hopefully, he isn't a stranger to those he used to call his brothers.

He knows that he's changed. He knows that months of running and hiding and fighting have altered and warped him, turning him from a naive young man into a confident yet disillusioned warrior. He knows that the d'Artagnan of a year ago isn't the d'Artagnan of today. He knows that he's grown and matured and that now he's a different person, and he knows that such a change has always been inevitable.

He doesn't know if his brothers will understand that. He doesn't even know if they'll forgive him for abandoning them. Perhaps they will hate him for what he did, perhaps they will never forgive him. Worse, perhaps they will forgive him, but won't _understand,_ and that lack of understanding will mark a sad end to a painfully short friendship.

There are so many ways this meeting can go wrong, and d'Artagnan is, frankly, terrified. But he recognizes that running away isn't an option, and, in any case, he's tired of running. He's been running for months on end and he's sick to death of it.

So he makes his way through the streets of the familiar-yet-unfamiliar city, and it isn't terribly long before he finds himself standing in front of Athos' door. He can hear voices from inside, a soothing murmur that he's heard thousands of times before, beckoning him.

He raises a fist to knock...and hesitates.

Despite his best attempts not to give into the anxiety and fear, a shiver of apprehension runs up his spine, the cause of his hesitation. A million fears run through his mind, vague and indistinct, scurrying in circles like a pack of frightened rats. They cause his hand to still, his fist to hover over the wooden door without making contact, and they keep him immobile for several moments.

 _What if they hate me what if they're ashamed of me what if they don't like what I've become what if they can't forgive me what if they've forgotten me what if I've been replaced what if they're dead whatifwhatif_ _ **whatif...**_

He pulls himself together with a visible effort and a reminder to himself to not be a damned fool, and, throwing all caution to the winds, he raps his knuckles against the door. Twice in a row, just like he always does.

The voices stop suddenly, and there's a nerve-wracking minute or two as he waits for the door to open. Thin threads of unease wrap around his lungs, trying to strangle him, and for a brief instant he considers bolting, running for his life.

And then the door opens, the hinges creaking ever so slightly, and d'Artagnan is face-to-face with Aramis.

Aramis...looks... _older_.

Not _physically_ , no. But there are lines of sorrow and barely-healed grief on his face, and the mirthful sparkle in his eyes is muted. He looks sick at heart, and there's something in his expression that reminds d'Artagnan of how he himself used to look in the months just after Alexandre's death. There's a stab of pain in d'Artagnan's chest as he realizes that this is all his fault. Aramis suffered, _still_ suffers, because of him. Him, and his misguided-yet-effective attempt to protect his friend.

Said friend is staring at him, eyes glassy and mouth hanging open, pure shock and bewilderment written on his face. Feeling rather uneasy, d'Artagnan resists the urge to fidget nervously as he waits for Aramis to recover from his understandable surprise, waits for the marksman to make the next move.

The man does so, eventually, but it's little more than a breathless whisper of his name. " _D'Artagnan..."_

"Aramis," he replies, unnatural and stilted, testing the waters. He's not sure yet whether Aramis wants to hug or punch him, and he's not willing to make any assumptions.

"You—but—why— _how—"_

"It's a long story," he says, because it is. A very long and complicated story filled with pain, tears, and bloodshed.

Aramis clearly detects some of the shadows hidden behind that statement, for his expression softens with compassion. Moments later, d'Artagnan finds himself enveloped in a hug, something that makes him stiffen in surprise.

"You idiot," Aramis mutters thickly, his face buried in d'Artagnan's shoulder. D'Artagnan thinks he can feel the older man's shoulders shaking—is he _sobbing?_ "You complete and utter fool. You imbecile."

Well, d'Artagnan can't really argue with that.

Eventually, Aramis pulls away, his brown eyes suspiciously shiny. There are a few leftover tear tracks on his face, which the marksman hastily wipes away with the back of his hand. "Come on inside, Athos and Porthos are there," he says as he grabs d'Artagnan by the wrist and tries to drag him inside.

D'Artagnan yields with only a little hesitation. He's still apprehensive, but he can't forget the empty look in Aramis' eyes when the man first opened the door, and he knows that there's no turning back now. Ignoring the subtle eye-roll from Aramis at his reluctance, he allows the older man to tug on his wrist, pulling him inside the room.

Aramis was correct; Athos and Porthos are there, sitting at a table which is littered with wine bottles and cups. They look up as he enters, and d'Artagnan can see Porthos freezing in shock, can see the color draining from Athos' face.

D'Artagnan meets their stares evenly, and waits.

Athos, ever the most self-possessed of the three, is first to recover, even if it's only to say one word in a hopelessly tremulous voice. "D'Artagnan?"

There's so much desperate hope and _pain_ in his voice, and for the first time d'Artagnan truly realizes just how much he hurt his mentor. He knows that all three of them grieved, but Athos was the one who likely was struck the hardest. The man's heart and soul were already scarred by Thomas' death, and the news of d'Artagnan's demise would have ripped every last one of those scars wide open, and would have gouged out new wounds besides.

The guilt is almost crushing, and once again d'Artagnan has the urge to run. He feels Aramis' grip on his wrist tightening, as if the marksman somehow caught wind of his desire to flee. It's a small gesture, but it's enough to make him quash the unwelcome impulse and face the situation head on. "Athos. Porthos."

"Whelp," Porthos says, clearly disbelieving. Athos, for his part, rises unsteadily from his chair without breaking eye contact with his former protégé.

"You were dead," Athos states flatly, still alarmingly pale, as if he's seen a ghost. He falters a little when he says the word 'dead,' and d'Artagnan charitably pretends not to notice.

"Faked," d'Artagnan replies, his calm voice belying his inner turmoil. He can feel his heart beating frantically in his chest, in time with his mind's frantic muttering of _whatifwhatifwhatif_. "It was faked."

Athos' gaze sharpens. "Explain," he orders, the tone of his voice brooking no argument.

"It's a long story."

"You fooled us into believing you were dead for eleven months. We have time."

D'Artagnan winces a little at the reminder, before hesitantly nodding. "Very well."

He steps towards the table, Aramis at his side. Out of habit, he steers clear of the window, ignoring the curious glances from his brothers as he does so, and seats himself in the unoccupied fourth chair. A part of him feels warmed by the fact that his brothers had always left a chair ready for him, even when they thought he was dead, but the warmth is soon overshadowed by more guilt.

Athos lowers himself back into his chair, and Aramis does the same. All three of them are listening, waiting for d'Artagnan to explain, and the Gascon chokes up for a moment because how? How can he explain why he did this, how can he justify hurting them all so badly? How can he defend doing this to them?

He can't. Not really. But they suffered so much because of his decision, the least they deserve is a proper explanation.

So he swallows, and begins to speak. The words are slow and halting at first, but he soon settles into a kind of rhythm as he tells them the story. He tries to be as frank and objective as possible, to avoid twisting the story in his favor, because he's already told one horrible, monstrous lie and he doesn't want to tell any others.

When he's finished, there's a kind of icy chill to the room. Aramis has understanding in his gaze, but Porthos' own is tainted with hurt, and Athos' contains a strange mixture of anger and sadness.

"Let me see if I understand this," Athos says carefully, and there's something in his tone which makes d'Artagnan cringe in apprehension. "You decided to fake your death, thereby putting us through needless grief and pain, so you could hunt down a vicious criminal. _Alone_."

"It was the only option I had-"

"How so?" Athos says, repressed fury in his voice. His posture is stiff and rigid with anger, like a tightly-coiled spring. "You could, _should_ have asked us for help. Instead of which you tricked us into thinking you were deceased, and then endangered your own life by confronting a dangerous man without support or aid. I fail to see the logic in your actions."

"Athos is right, pup," Porthos chimes in. "You should've asked one of us to help."

D'Artagnan's right hand curls into a fist. "Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly an option at the time."

"Why not? Did you not trust us?"

"It had nothing to do with trust, Athos."

"Then why?"

D'Artagnan considers his answer for a little while before speaking, words slow and measured. "It would have been...more dangerous for you, if I had reached out to any of you. At least this way, if anyone was injured or killed, it would have been I and I alone."

He looks down and away. "It's...also why I faked my own death. If you knew that I was dead, you wouldn't have any reason to try and look for me, and then you wouldn't get involved. I couldn't risk you endangering yourselves in an attempt to help me."

Porthos snorts, the hurt fading from his expression as he does so. "We can defend ourselves, d'Art."

"Not against this, you couldn't. At least not for very long," he says, and the grim certainty in his voice is enough to silence them on that front.

Athos closes his eyes for a moment, clearly a little overwhelmed. When he opens them again, his eyes are steely, but the anger has dissipated somewhat. "Promise me that you will never do that to us again."

It's an order, not a request, and d'Artagnan isn't foolish enough to disobey it. "Wouldn't dream of it," he smiles, his grin growing wider when they return the smile in kind.

It seems that, just maybe, they're going to be alright.

* * *

 **A/N: ...So. There we have it. Hopefully you guys like it.**

 **Au revoir.**


	2. Legacy

**A/N: Hey everyone! Bit of a short fill this time, as this is mostly introspection.**

 **A big thank you to rycbarm123 for betareading, they did a fantastic job :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form. Also, today's prompt comes once again from The Fake Redhead Writes, a website devoted to writing which gives permission for people to use their prompts.**

* * *

 _Prompt:_

" _If my legacy is to throw myself in the path of a bullet to save your life, then so be it."_

* * *

There are some things in life which you must simply accept as they are. Things that you cannot change through any effort of your own. Things that you must simply learn to contend with, not by deliberately blinding yourself to them or by denying their existence, but simply by acknowledging and enduring them.

D'Artagnan had already encountered a few of those things in his short life. His mother's death and father's demise were both irreversible and undeniable. Painful as both of those losses were, however, he'd slowly learned to live with the pain, to move past the sorrow without denying its existence. It was difficult, but he did it, and he felt all the better for it.

There was, however, one thing that d'Artagnan had some difficulty accepting, and that involved the unfortunate truth regarding his three new friends, the Inseparables.

It was, to be honest, fairly obvious. It was written in every instant of his interactions with them, displayed before him clear as day every time that the three shared some inside joke, or communicated with each other through glances instead of through burdensome words. It was apparent in the way they worked together, smoothly like the cogs in a clock, always in tune with each other's moods and thoughts, working on a higher level which he was never able to really attain or even understand.

And there laid the rub. The sad fact of the matter was that the three shared a closeness that he was nowhere near to having with any of of them. He was an outsider, slowly drifting somewhere on the outskirts of their friendships, watching from the outside without entertaining any hope of getting closer. It felt like the three of them each held a part of some priceless treasure, and he was only able to reach a few faint scraps.

He didn't hold it against them, God forbid. It was natural that there would be some disconnect, and he didn't harbor any illusions as to his importance. No matter what, the three would always share some hidden history, some additional bonds that he wasn't privy to, and as a result they would always be closer to each other than to him. It wasn't their fault, nor was it his. It was just the way life was, and he had to accept it as such.

So he did, albeit reluctantly. And the world moved on and on, ever forwards, unstoppable and indomitable.

* * *

A troublesome incident brought some new, unwelcome revelations.

A mission gone wrong had resulted in a badly wounded Aramis and an understandably worried Porthos and Athos. It was why the two were in the infirmary with their injured friend, while he himself was left once more (evermore) on the sidelines.

They'd promised that they valued him as if he'd always been a part of their strange little friendship, they'd sworn that they would extend the brotherhood they shared to involve him as well, yet it was in stressful situations like these that their statements were shown to be ringing with falsehood. Even if they didn't realize it, they would always default to their usual three-man team in times of crisis, leaving him out in the cold.

It didn't bother him. At least, he didn't _let_ it bother him, allowing his own worry for Aramis' health to overshadow his own selfish thoughts. But after all was said and done, when it was declared that Aramis would have a full recovery and they all breathed a sigh of relief, he found himself wondering.

Wondering how they would feel if he was injured (a part of his mind whispered _killed_ ), as opposed to one of them. Wondering if they would prefer (unconsciously, perhaps, but still prefer) if _he_ were the one wounded ( _killed_ ) instead of one of them. Wondering if, if worse came to worst, it would be better for him to take the fall, allowing them to continue on without him (unstoppable and indomitable).

These were dangerous thoughts, he knew that, and at first he told himself that he was being silly, ridiculous, _selfish._ He shoved the treacherous thoughts back into a corner of his mind, denying their very existence, and he continued doing so for several months until he eventually came back to his senses.

After all, there was little point in refusing to believe in facts, and the facts were very outspoken and clear on the matter. D'Artagnan was the odd man out, the extra, the spare. It had been proven to him hundreds, thousands of times before. It was therefore only natural that he, as the least important part, would be a better sacrifice than any of the other three.

After he figured this out, he made a promise to himself. He would protect these men with his life, making sure that they endured even if he died in the process, for their lives were more valuable than his own. They would mourn him if he died, of course, but it wouldn't be as bad than if one of them perished, destroying their legendary friendship and ripping out the hearts of the other two.

(And his own heart as well, but that was irrelevant)

Perhaps if he stopped being an outsider looking in, perhaps if he truly became one of them (although he was more and more doubtful that such a thing would ever happen), than he might change his mind.

For now, though, he would protect them, and if his legacy would eventually be to throw himself in the path of a bullet to save their lives, then so be it.

After all, it was the way life was.

* * *

 **A/N: D'Art, you are so dumb at times that it's a wonder you're still alive.**

 **I'd like to remind everyone that I'm accepting prompts from all and sundry. However, please take into account that it might take anything from days to months for me to fill your prompt, as I tend to fill prompts rather erratically and in no particular order.**

 **Au revoir.**


	3. Choices

**A/N: Heya. I'm back. Sorry I'm late, I got stuck in traffic.**

 **Thank you to _rycbarm123_ for betareading.**

 **Warning for depictions of blindness and references to past torture.**

 **Disclaimer:** **I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form. Also, this chapter's prompt came from a website called The Fake Redhead Writes, a website dedicated to writing which gives permission for people to use their prompts.**

* * *

 _Prompt:_

 _"You made your choice and I made mine. Just because you can't live with yours doesn't mean you should shame me for living with mine."_

* * *

Someone was knocking at the door. Gently, persistently. An order hidden shyly behind a veil of common courtesy.

D'Artagnan rose, bracing himself against the back of his chair. He walked towards the door—two steps left, thirteen steps forward, duck underneath the living room's doorframe and be sure not to trip over the carpet. He'd learned those last two the hard way.

Now in front of the door, he gingerly reached a hand out until his fingers made contact with the cold metal door handle. Two more inches down—that's the lock. Turn the key twice to the right, go back up to the handle, twist and carefully open.

"Hello," he said softly, hoping that he's looking in the person's general direction. He could hear their breathing, slow and calming, and he used that to guide his gaze.

"Hello, d'Artagnan," the person greeted, and the sound of their voice instantly soured d'Artagnan's mood, making his lips twist in a spiteful snarl. It was Aramis, of course. He was the only one who really visited, these days, sticking around even when Porthos had followed Athos' lead, and Athos had abandoned d'Artagnan for his own special reasons.

D'Artagnan would be more appreciative of Aramis' loyalty, if he couldn't tell it for what it really was.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan replied coldly. "Returned in another attempt to assuage your guilt, haven't you?"

He heard the other man's sharp intake of breath, followed by a small sigh. There was a few moments of silence before Aramis spoke again, voice subdued. "Actually...no. I've come to return the book you lent me."

D'Artagnan scoffed. A poor excuse, indeed. Aramis knew perfectly well that d'Artagnan had no further use for books, not in his current state. The marksman could keep the damn book for all d'Artagnan cared.

Still, he reached out a hand, waiting for Aramis to place the book in his grasp. When the older man did so, d'Artagnan turned on his heel, not bothering to welcome Aramis inside.

Thirteen steps forward, two steps left, be sure to duck under the doorframe that separates the living room from the entrance hall. Now he was next to his chair. Five steps forward and to the right. Now he was in front of the book case. Third shelf from the bottom, feel for the missing gap in the cluster of books. Now he could slide the book back into its rightful place.

When he was finished putting the book away, he turned around, and waited. He knew that Aramis had followed him here—he'd heard the man's footsteps, after all.

His suppositions were correct, for Aramis soon spoke, voice coming from a spot a little to d'Artagnan's left. D'Artagnan shifted slightly to face him.

"D'Artagnan." Aramis sounded tired and weary, almost nothing like his usual bubbly self. Then again, he'd never really been cheerful since the _incident_ happened. "We need to talk. About Athos."

Ah. It was going to be one of _those_ conversations.

"I don't know that there's anything to talk about, Aramis," d'Artagnan said, not bothering to hide the sharpness leaking into his tone. He'd asked for it, by mentioning Athos when he knew perfectly well why d'Artagnan didn't want to discuss the man. "I don't want to talk to him. He can't stand the sight of me. As far as I'm concerned, that's the end of it."

" _D'Artagnan."_

"What?" And now the defensiveness, the justifications. D'Artagnan knew they wouldn't do any good, but he couldn't stop himself from arguing all the same. "He didn't even _try_ to speak to me after that—that _disaster_ of a mission. Considering that it's partly _his_ fault that this happened to me—"

"It wasn't his fault, d'Artagnan."

"If he'd bothered to tell me everything, I wouldn't have been caught," d'Artagnan retorted savagely. "But no, I was too _young._ Too _inexperienced._ What could a common farm boy like myself know about such things? No, far better to withhold information from me, so I could be found out, instead!"

"It wasn't because you were inexperienced. We had a plan, and we couldn't let you know about it, or else it wouldn't have worked."

"Some plan it was, to throw me straight in the lion's den!"

"We didn't expect it to go so wrong—"

"So wrong? _So wrong?_ They _blinded_ me, Aramis, or haven't you noticed?"

Silence. A deep breath from Aramis' corner. More silence.

"I am deeply sorry for that, d'Artagnan."

"You're just saying that because you can't cope with your guilt," d'Artagnan snapped. "Although I suppose I should appreciate the effort. It's more than the likes of Athos ever did, after all."

"D'Artagnan, Athos feels guilty—"

"As he should."

Aramis ignored the interruption. "—And that's why he didn't visit you. He couldn't face you at the time."

"The sight of me too much for him, is it?" D'Artagnan inquired nastily. "Well, I guess it's to be expected, I'm not exactly looking my best. _Burning a person's eyes out with a hot iron_ will do that to a man, you know."

There was a sound from Aramis as if he were in physical pain, and d'Artagnan felt a small stab of vindictive satisfaction when he heard it.

Then Aramis said something that made the stab disappear as quickly as it came. "You don't seem to be so eager to see Athos either, d'Artagnan."

"Technically, I can't _see_ him," d'Artagnan commented flippantly, just for the sake of annoying Aramis. Knowing that the bookcase was right behind him, he gingerly leaned back against it and crossed his arms over his chest, twisting his face into something which he _hoped_ was a sneer. "And, considering what he did, is it so surprising that I don't want to talk to him?"

"I would have thought that you would have preferred to speak with him, instead of hiding here and living off the king's money."

 _Ouch_ , that stung. With difficulty, d'Artagnan forced a sickly-sweet smile on his face. "Now, now, Aramis. The king _offered_ to house me after I lost my eyesight in his service. I could hardly refuse, could I?"

A scoff. "Don't insult my intelligence. The only reason you accepted his offer was because you blame the king for sending us out on that mission, and you wanted him to pay for it. In this case, literally."

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. What does it matter?"

"It matters because I thought you'd have a little more self-respect than that."

Well, wasn't that rich, coming from him. "You betrayed me, I'll have you remember. Somehow my self-respect, or lack thereof, pales a little in comparison."

"D'Artagnan—"

"No, Aramis," d'Artagnan said, perhaps a little too harshly. Not that he cared. "You made your choice, and I made mine. Just because you can't live with your choice doesn't mean you have the right to reproach me for living with mine."

Another sigh, frayed and worn. D'Artagnan was getting sick of hearing them.

"...This conversation isn't going anywhere. I think it would be best if I left, d'Artagnan."

 _Coward._ Then again, d'Artagnan had expected nothing less. "By all means, leave. I'm not keeping you here."

More silence. Then, the sound of Aramis walking out of the living room. His footsteps paused when he reached the door, and he stood there a moment without moving.

"I hope you'll rethink your decision, d'Artagnan," he said at last. "Athos...he's not coping well."

The remaining loyalty that he held for his friends reared its head upon hearing that, but he squashed it down mercilessly. "I'll be sure to give that statement all the consideration it deserves, Aramis."

A pause, followed by the creak of the handle turning. The door swung open, allowing in sounds from outside, before it shut with a small click. Aramis was gone.

D'Artagnan didn't know how long he stood there, staring out into darkness as he thought, but eventually he pulled away from the bookcase when its sharp edges started digging painfully into his back. Suddenly feeling at a loss, he carefully made his way to his chair. He sat down, the leather creaking, the sound loud in the silence of the room.

The silence.

With a muffled sort of sound, he buried his face in his hands, and quietly began to mourn for all the things he's lost.

* * *

 **A/N: Reminder that I'm still taking prompts.** **However, please remember that it might take anything from days to months for me to fill your prompt, as I tend to fill prompts rather erratically and in no particular order.**

 **Au revoir.**


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